Polygamous Marriage
by grannysknitting
Summary: John wouldn't like to be known as Sherlock's girlfriend, and he disapproved of cheaters... so how could Sherlock convince him that he was more than just a flatmate? Post Ep 3. Could be seen as pre-slash, or just Sherlock being Sherlock cross posted atLJ


**Polygamous Marriage – Sherlock BBC Fic**

**Authors note – it has been brought to my attention that the Mormon's and affiliated religions no longer practice polygamous marriage. This error is due to my poor research. I meant no offence to those of that religion.**

**Mormon's don't marry more than one person. I hope that is clear**

Pre-dates Sharing John

Written: October 26th, 12:16

Current Mood: artistic

Current Music: classic FM

0o0o0

When he woke, his ears were still ringing. He'd only caught the tail of the blast, due to the fact that John had knocked him into the pool milliseconds after he'd pulled the trigger. So many thoughts rushed through his mind - did the bomb destroy the whole building, did they get Moriarty, was his second best suit ruined by chlorine, how annoyed would Lestrade be with him now, why had he never played his violin properly for John instead of those long scrapes and screeches that his flatmate had endured for hours...

John.

He wasn't there. John was never there when Sherlock played properly. His flatmate had a 'thing' about it. He would never enter the room if Sherlock was playing his violin like it was supposed to be played, going upstairs to his own room, even when Sherlock knew John would have preferred to come in, make a cup of tea, sit and be comfortable. Sherlock never started playing with John in the room either - he'd gotten into the ridiculous habit of going upstairs if he was going to play MUSIC and John was in the front room. If Sherlock was screeching away, then John had no compunctions at all about entering the room, or staying put and ignoring him. It was as if true music was something forbidden between them, some line that wasn't to be crossed.

Well, that was going to change. He would sit John down the moment they got back to Baker Street and play properly for him. In the light of the events at the pool, Sherlock found that he couldn't bear the idea of a boundary between them. Personal boundaries were already at an all time low - John would fish things out of Sherlock's clothes while his flatmate was still wearing them, Sherlock could lean on John in any setting and - provided the other man was in good health - be accepted with nothing more than a mild grumble. John accepted him as he WAS - saw beneath the label that Sherlock had pinned to himself to keep the more annoying expectations of society at bay. Not even Mycroft accepted Sherlock like John did - there was always that taint of brotherly connection between them.

John accepted him, liked him, befriended him. Before John, all he had was the work... his Wife. Now he had so much more.

John still wasn't there. Sherlock knew that the monitor he was hooked to (annoying beeps, pressure on index finger, pinch in back of hand from IV) had announced that he was awake, even if his eyes had remained closed. So where was John? The hospital had no hope of keeping him in bed - John did. Mycroft would make sure that John had easy access to him in order to keep the hospital staff from murdering him collectively.

"John?" his voice was rather weak, and the condition of his throat confirmed that he had been unconscious for some time. He was not in significant pain, so his injuries weren't severe enough for a coma... he'd been sedated then, made to sleep for a time determined by his doctors and more likely, Mycroft. Filing that deduction away until he could use it against his older brother, Sherlock forced his eyes open and looked around.

Standard hospital room, private by the decore - he was in one of Mycroft's little pet facilities then. John had better be here too or there would be hell to pay... he'd better not be dead... just because Sherlock had survived there was no guarantee that his John had...

The door opened and Mycroft himself appeared, bland of face and superior of attitude.

"Before you start yelling, Sherlock, yes, he is here, yes he is alive, yes he is badly hurt. You've been sedated to allow your own wound time to knit properly, as I remember full well how bad you were at staying in bed as a child," Mycroft's tone was supposed to be soothing. It grated in Sherlock's ears like a cat squalling in heat.

"I want to see him," there was no room for argument in Sherlock's tone; to make himself perfectly clear he reached for the IV line in the back of his hand.

"There is a nurse coming to do that," Mycroft said sharply, catching his hand, "She will also be bringing a wheelchair. The bullet wound in your side is superficial, but I am sure Dr Watson would prefer that you don't bleed all over him at your first meeting."

"How bad?" Sherlock's brain caught up with his ears, likely a side effect of the drugs, and he glared at his brother as the door opened once more and a nurse entered, accompanied by a doctor. They were having an affair if the traces upon their persons were anything to go by, and Sherlock was disgusted with them for living a cliche... how mundane it all was.

"Dr Watson was shot three times as he knocked you into the safety of the pool. After the explosion he pulled you both out, as you were unconscious. He was discovered in the rubble, trying to pull you away from the fire that was enveloping the structure. He fought the medics to stay with you, until he passed out, of course. He's in the Critical Care Unit - pneumonia has set in as a complication of the wounds and the ducking but should he survive it the doctors predict a full recovery."

Sherlock closed his eyes, wanting a moment of privacy as he processed all of this. This wasn't his fault - Moriarty had designed the 'Game' and then kidnapped John... but then Moriarty had seen something before Sherlock had ever known it. The self proclaimed sociopath had developed a heart. He was no longer married only to his work... he had gained a heart in the shape of John Watson...

"Mr Holmes?" the doctors soft voice would be pleasing to anyone who enjoyed the well modulated tones of an educated woman. Sherlock prefered his doctor to be male, slightly nasal and warm hearted. Slightly tanned from military service and still bearing the upright posture of a soldier a must.

"Yes, yes, can I go now?" Sherlock snapped impatiently, opening his eyes. The nurse - a strapping young man who had doubtless been chosen for his ability to wrestle his more stubborn patients into compliance - raised an eyebrow and moved the wheelchair closer to the bed. Mycroft stood to one side, looking useless as Sherlock prised himself up off the mattress and ignored the sting in his side as he slid into the wheelchair. He accepted the blanket across his knees with ill grace and shifted irritably until they were moving through the door and into the corridor.

The ride to John's room seemed infinitely long. Really, couldn't Mycroft have insisted that they were in adjacent rooms at least, if not sharing a room together? Sherlock would have to ensure that matters were arranged better now that he was awake. If John's injuries were as severe as Mycroft said - and Sherlock wouldn't put it past his brother to be attempting scare tactics on him - then they'd be in hospital for a few weeks at the very least. Maybe Lestrade could be persuaded to bring the cold case files that Sherlock hadn't trawled through already to the hospital... it would give him something to do while John healed.

"Finally!" Sherlock could no more restrain the exclamation as Mycroft pushed John's door open then he could fly. He ignored the look his big brother gave him as a matter of course, well accustomed to Mycroft's impertinent ways.

John looked terrible. You didn't need to be a doctor to realise that the man in the bed was gravely ill indeed. The oxygen mask, the catheter, chest tube and multiple IV's all spoke to that, as did the slow beep of the heart monitor. He'd clearly been shot in the chest, lower abdomen and thigh - the limp may well be genuine now, depending on John's ability to retrain the injured limb. Sherlock allowed the chair to be wheeled to John's side before leaning forward and poking one long finger at the back of John's hand.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft protested in a soft voice, but the touch did the trick. John's eyes opened, stared fuzzily at the ceiling for a moment and then focused wearily on Sherlock's face.

"I'm going to convert to the Mormons," Sherlock told John seriously, ignoring his big brother once again as the man exclaimed in exasperation. He didn't need to worry that John would misunderstand him, that John would think he was being facetious or just ODD - John always understood him, even when proclaiming at the top of his lungs that he didn't want to know thank you very much.

Sherlock wouldn't give up his Wife, his work... but he needed John Watson in his life - a life that had become so much MORE since Mike Stamford had introduced them. John wouldn't help him cheat on his Wife, nor would he like to be referred to as Sherlock's Mistress. Therefore Sherlock needed to find a way to be married to two things at once. He was certain that John would accept his proposal - after all everyone already thought they were together, and he'd long ago deduced that John was a bisexual.

John smiled and captured the finger that had poked him awake, squeezing gently. He nodded once and then went back to sleep.

"I'll draw the papers up, shall I?" Mycroft drawled behind him and Sherlock nodded, waving a hand in dismissal. He wriggled the rest of his fingers into John's grip and rested his chin on his other hand, happy for once to wait for his partner to catch up.

END

Disclaimer - series and characters as depicted by the BBC are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine, such as it is.


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